


The Girl with the Fabulous

by NickelModelTales



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1970s, Chauvinism, Comedy, F/M, Hypnotism, Obsession, Period-Typical Sexism, Perversion, Porn With Plot, Power Imbalance, Shameless Smut, Television, bimbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-04-21 08:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22055758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NickelModelTales/pseuds/NickelModelTales
Summary: A sleazy local TV station discovers a hot young woman who is dying to break into show biz.  But she’s a ditsy mess on the air!  Perhaps some hypnotism can bring her under control?
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	1. WCRP in Omaha

** _Omaha, Nebraska_ **

** _June 1978_ **

** _Chuck, WCRP Station Manager_ **

** _Age: 54_ **

“’Ay, Chuck?” Ms. White says, just outside the doorway to my cramped little office.

I’m digging through the foot of papers in my inbox. When I became Station Manager of WCRP Channel 37 (“Omaha’s and America’s Favorite UHF Station!”), I thought I’d spend my days developing local programming. I do some of that, sure. We here at WCRP have our Action News Hour, a cooking show, a variety hour, a kiddie puppet program, sports coverage, a talent show, that kind of small potatoes stuff. Its fun, although deep down inside, I know our shows really aren’t very good.

But Goddamn… I swear, I spend more than 90% of my time shuffling paperwork around.

I light a new cigarette.

“Ahem… Chuck…?” Ms. White tries again.

Look. Here’s a formal complaint from Crazy Zeke’s Discount Furniture, one of our sponsors. Crazy Zeke is complaining because his 30 second commercial aired at 6:18 PM, not 6:16 PM, as their contract stipulates. So we were two minutes slow! **_Who the fuck cares?_**

Next! What’s this? An employee complaint? From… Jill Henderson, a staff writer on our variety show. Oh, yeah, I know Jill. Tall broad. Nice figure. Big teeth, though.

Jill’s panties are in a bunch because… Because Barry Growdry, our line producer, pinched her ass in the elevator? And he complimented her breasts? That’s it???

I snort with disgust as I crumple Henderson’s complaint and toss it into the circular file. Jill Henderson better grow up, is all I can say. You wanna work at WCRP, honey? Well, you’d better get used to having your ass fondled. This is a boy’s station. This is how we do things here.

“Chuck!” snaps Ms. White in exasperation.

I look up, annoyed. Ms. White is a good secretary. She’s fat and always wears those awful kitten sweaters. I’d fire her and replace her with a good-looking chick, maybe a blonde with big tits… except Whitey is really damn good at the job.

“What?” I grunt.

“Chuck, there’s… someone… here to see you,” Ms. White frowns, his displeasure obvious.

Probably a new business owner, here to pitch me for a commercial spot. New biz people always think they have to come in to my office and do a homemade presentation for the commercial they want to air. Its like they think I’m Hollywood and they have to impress me, or something. All I care is they have the $199 for a 30 second slot.

I gesture, then stab out my cigarette in the ashtray. Man, its smokey in this office. I really should crack a window…

Ms. White steps aside, and suddenly a girl… a girl with a **_fabulous_** figure… enters.

Oh, man, my eyes probably bug out of my sockets. This girl, she must be eighteen, maybe twenty, tops. She’s **_beautiful_**, like jaw-droppingly beautiful, with tumbling brown hair, bright red lips, sparkling green eyes. She fills out those jeans as if her body was sculpted for them. And she’s wearing a tight little top that her full breasts push against **_just so_**.

The girl smiles at me, and suddenly I’m in love.

Who **_is_** this chick?

Oh, God… Those eyes! She’s smoking hot, but to me, she’ll always be the Girl with the Fabulous Green Eyes.

“Hmmgh,” Ms. White glowers, then waddles back to her desk.

“Mr. Baker?” the teen goddess says, those green eyes flashing with delight. Even her voice is bubbly and sexy.

“Yeah. I mean, yes. I mean, er, Chuck, call me Chuck,” I babble, doing my best to leap to my feet. I suck in my gut – there’s a lot of it these days – and extend a hand.

“Hi Chuck,” the girl laughs. “I’m Trixie. Trixie Mathers. And I just wanted to tell you, I’m **_so thrilled_** to be here.”

This must be a joke. Any minute now, the hidden camera crew will pop out from behind a screen, and I’ll be laughed at by half the nation.

“Oh,” I mumble. “Well, er, thank you. Er… yeah.”

Awkwardly, I gesture to one of the two chairs opposite my cluttered desk. The chair has a bad coffee stain on its seat… but I somehow forget that in the moment.

Trixie doesn’t seem to notice. She bends those shapely legs at the knees and sits delicately, ladylike, with her cute little tush on the edge of the chair and her back straight. With a casual flick of her head, she tosses those thick locks of hair over one shoulder.

Man, I have a thing for that “hair over one shoulder” look. Jesus, if I was only twenty years younger…

“So, er, what can I do for you, Trixie?” I say, sitting back down.

“Oh, Chuck,” sighs Trixie, smiling once more, “I know this is probably the silliest thing you’ve heard all year… but I just love television. I’d like to be a part of your programming. Somehow.” She leans forward, slightly, and I see her breasts push against her top a little more. “Somehow.”

“Oh,” I say, completely not expecting this.

“Ever since I was a kid,” Trixie confesses, “I wanted to be on TV. I used to rearrange the living room furniture and deliver evening newscasts to my parents and their friends. You know?”

“You want… to audition,” I say stupidly.

“Yeah, exactly!” Trixie cries. “Audition! I just didn’t know the word.” She actually blushes.

Wow, not only is this girl the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in Omaha, she’s also dumb as a brick.

Gorgeous and dumb, eh? My favorite combination. A million possibilities whirl through my head. Most of them involve me and Trixie secluded away in the Council Bluffs Motel.

“Okay, okay, ahem, okay…” I hem, trying to look and sound professional. (At WCRP, this is a challenge.) “Well, er, Trixie, do you have a resume?”

“No,” replies the girl.

“Okay, then. A head shot?”

“No.”

“Acting experience? Or ever take an acting class?”

“Ah, no.”

“Modeling work?” Man, this girl would make millions if she were to pose. In the nude, of course.

“No.”

“Ah,” I say delicately. “Well, have you any experience with public speaking? Or ever been in the school play, perhaps?”

“No.”

I’m feeling more than a little perplexed. “Well… do you have any…”

Perhaps sensing that she’s not being much talent to the table, Trixie, leans forward, concern in her eyes. “Pleeeeeease, mister, I just gotta be on TV!”

“Okay, okay,” I tell her. “What entertainment skills do you got?”

“I was a cheerleader,” Trixie says quickly. “I can remember any cheer, real quick. And I never miss any steps.”

“Uh-huh,” I muse, pretending to digest this information.

I risk a quick glance down at that curvy chest and tight little waist. I can’t resist a quick indulgence.

“Well,” I rumble, “…can I see a cheer?”

“Sure!” grins Trixie, and leaps to her feet. She pushes the chairs aside.

Then she stands straight up, her feet pressed together, her hands clasped before her as if she’s about to pray. Then she begins leaping up and down.

“**_Go! Go! Go!_**” she chants, her sexy voice booming. Her slender arms begin to pinwheel in the air, as if she’s trying to flag down a plane. “**_Go, Wildcats! Go, Wildcats! Go, Go, GO!!!_**”

I can see nothing but those lusciously-shaped breasts, bouncing up and down, both moving with a hypnotic rhythm. I watch them rise and fall, getting a sense for their perfect roundness, their weight, their tender softness. Once again, I imagine this girl naked.

Mmm...! Now I’m hard.

Trixie strikes one final pose, her legs straight but spread apart, one arm straight up in the air, the other planting a fist on her hips. Her head is held high, and her smile is prize-winning. She’s breathing a little harder than before, and those tits are still bobbing slightly.

Through my office door, I can see half the WCRP staff, gawking at Trixie and me.

I ignore them. Trixie is easily the hottest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. Hugh Hefner would fall over himself to sign her.

I’ll snap her up today, but get her on the casting couch later. Business before pleasure.

“Let’s set you up with an exclusive contract, shall we?” I say casually.

*********

** _Barry, WCRP Line Producer_ **

** _Age: 47_ **

Its 9:34 PM, and I’m home, on my nightcap for the evening. Betty and I are settling down to finish Fantasy Island when the phone rings.

“Someone’s calling after nine?” Betty frowns. “Why, the nerve!”

I ignore my wife and pick up.

“_Hey Barry,_” the voice on the other end of the line says. Its Chuck, WCRP’s Station Manager. My boss.

“Oh, hi there, Chuck,” I say, surprised. “Everything okay?”

“_Yeah, yeah,_” replies Chuck, sounding a little distracted. “_Listen, I’ve been thinking about the Lottery Drawing, and I want to make some changes starting tomorrow._”

I produce the WCRP Lottery Drawing, which airs every weekday at 6:27 PM. It’s the easiest little piece of television to put on the air; all you need is a tiny set, one camera, and Mabel, our Lottery “girl.” Mabel’s been our Lottery Girl since 1953, when we first went on the air.

“Oh,” I say, unable to hide my surprise. “Uh, sure, Chuck. What, er, what changes-“

“_I brought a new girl on staff,_” Chuck interrupts. “_I want her to do the drawing tomorrow._”

I’m shocked. “But Mabel’s always-“

“_No arguments, Barry,_” Chuck says sternly. “_Just trust me, okay?_”

*********

The next day, I meet our new Lottery Girl.

My God! Where did Chuck find this dame? She’s… she’s the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen!

Don’t get me wrong. I love my wife. I love my wife, my kids, our dog, our house out in Green Meadows, even my wife’s parents, who come by every blasted weekend. But this woman… **_wow_**.

When I first see her, I’m walking into Chuck’s office. Chuck is at his desk, staring at this girl like he’s hypnotized or something. And the chick… she’d bending over, to buckle her shoe. She’s in a tight-fitting red dress with a short, short skirt, so all I can see at first is her ass. Her tight, perky little ass. The short little red dress is riding up **_just enough_** for me to see the bottom of her panties.

Chuck and I make eye contact, and he mouths, _Get a load of this!_ Then he raises his hands. He actually mimes cupping invisible breasts as he stares at the oblivious girl.

Then the young lady stands, and I’m blow away. Ohhhhhh… Lordy. She’s a **_knockout!_** Shapely in the chest and hips, yet with the tiniest little waist. Lean, compact shoulders, tantalizingly visible in that strapless dress. Brown hair that flows like you wouldn’t believe. The most delicate, feminine hands I’ve ever seen. And that face…! Oh man, is she beautiful. Just gorgeous. I almost drop my coffee cup when she smiles at me.

“Oh, hey, Barry,” Chuck says, as if he’s just noticed me. “This, uh, is Trixie. I thought we’d give her the Lottery Drawing, starting tonight.”

“You’re so sweet, Chuck,” Trixie coos, then bends over again to buckle her other shoe.

I came in here to demand that we reinstate Mabel as our Lottery Girl. After all, Mabel’s done Lottery for almost twenty-five years, right? Its not right to… to… **_My God, look at that girl’s ass!_** Its fabulous!

This is the Girl with the Fabulous Ass. I’ve just decided that.

I fanaticize about patting that ass. I bet its firm.

*********

** _Stephen, WCRP Makeup Artist_ **

** _Age: 31_ **

I’ve got maybe another five minutes of coffee break, when Barry Growdry – that asshole who produces the Lottery Drawing – pokes his head in the breakroom.

“Stevie!” he barks, deliberately using the kiddie version of my name. I hate that.

“Hey Barry,” I allow.

“We got a new Lottery Girl,” Barry snaps. “I need you to look at her and do her makeup. Now.”

And with that, he’s gone. Dick.

I sigh, pouring out my coffee, then crushing the Styrofoam cup. Then I trudge over to Makeup, where the other girls have no doubt made a mess of everything I’ve carefully organized.

Sure enough, Barry is there, hovering over someone new I’ve never seen before. She’s a very young woman, probably not even twenty, sitting in the main chair. She’s wearing a stunning red strapless dress, absolutely stunning. Its pretty clear that she didn’t pick out the dress for herself – the tops of her big breasts are showing, as are her graceful arms, and long legs. But this beautiful girl can work this outfit, believe me.

“This is Trixie,” Barry tells me. “She’s gonna be doing Lottery Drawing from now on. Can you get her ready?”

Can I get her ready? Could Leonardo paint? Honey, you’re asking the stupidest questions.

“Let’s take a look at you,” I murmur, coming to hover over Trixie. “I’ll take it from here, **_thanks_** Barry.”

Barry goes red for a moment, but takes the hint. He leaves Makeup, but not without a wistful glance at our new sex goddess.

I cluck my tongue. “Don’t mind him, sweetie,” I say to Trixie in a low voice. “Barry’s a bit of a slimeball, but he’s not too bright.”

“Oh, I don’t mind him,” Trixie smiles. “Actually, I think he’s sweet.”

Sweet? _Oh, honey, you are a babe in the woods,_ I think.

This girl is **_gorgeous_**, absolutely gorgeous. Its like the beautiful faces and bodies in humanity were just practice to build up to this heavenly diva. You know, if I was straight, I’d be slobbering all over her. Hell, not an ounce of me is straight, and I’m **_still_** slobbering all over this girl.

Its her face, I think. She’s got a gorgeous face. **_The_** gorgeous face. She’s the Girl with the Fabulous Face, that’s what Trixie is.

Alright, alright, alright, time to be the seasoned pro. I pick up a base and a brush. Then I lean in, and go to work. There’s not much to do.

*********

** _Hank, WCRP Cameraman_ **

** _Age: 24_ **

I punch in at 3:59 PM, right on the nose. Union rules say we’re not to punch in a second before start time, but fuck it, I can now take another extra minute on my smoke break.

I stash my stuff in my locker, then head down to the studio. I’m technically an assistant cameraman, but I’ve been doing this for three years now, so they let me do some of the more boring work on my own. I film the Lottery Drawing, for example.

First, I help the scenery guys for some light work, then check on my equipment, and then its 6:21. Almost time for Lottery.

When I get to our tiny Lottery set, I’m surprised. Where’s Mabel? I don’t much care for that old broad, but she’s never late. In fact-

“Right this way, right this way…” I hear Barry Growdry, our producer, say.

I turn, and I swear, I think my mouth drops open like a medieval drawbridge. There, being ushered onto the soundstage, is the sexiest chick I’ve ever – **_ever_** – **_EVER_** – seen. You gotta see this settagams. She’s thin, except her boobs and hips curve in just the right way. Oh, this chickie’s got some niiiiice boobs. Dynamite! She’s in a tiny little red dress, that pulls and struggles to keep her privates private. If we were at a nightclub, I’d expect she’d be dancing on a table for quarters.

The girl glances and smiles at me, and I about swoon. Me, fer Christsakes! Man, this dame is easily the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Long brown hair, green eyes, high cheekbones, pale skin, lips that look like they could suck a man to happy oblivion. Oh, she must give great head.

I gotta get her number.

“Right this way,” Barry oozes, moving closely with the hot chick. He’s placed one hand on her lower back to guide her along, and I swear the old pervert is itching to cop a feel on her butt. She’s got a great butt.

But you know what about her is most fabulous? I gotta be honest. Those tits. She’s the Girl with the Fabulous Tits. I could play with those tits for hours, I just know it. I gotta hold ‘em.

All work on the soundstage has stopped. Every man in the joint is casing out our new sexpot. Even Drake, our senior cameraman, who’s **_supposed_** to be filming Jackson Starr, our news anchorman, is gaping at the hot honey. Jackson is wondering why the shot’s drifting.

“Okay,” Barry says in a soft voice, maneuvering Fabulous Tits onto the Lottery set. “This is pretty simple. When Jackson over there gives you your cue and you hear your lead-in announcement, all you do is push this button – here – to start the Lotto machine. That starts all these ping-pong balls jumping about inside, see? Then, when the balls pop up, you just read the numbers aloud. That’s all you have to do. Get it?”

“Sounds easy, Barry,” gushes Fabulous Tits.

“You’ll be great, Trixie, you’ll be great,” promises our producer.

I happen to see the time: Its 6:26 and 30 seconds.

“Hey!” I crow, snapping back into pro mode. “Thirty seconds! Stand by!”

Through my camera, I see Barry tear himself away. Fabulous Tits… I mean Trixie, straightens and smiles. She looks directly at me. I mean, into the camera.

Man, this girl could charm Hitler. I’ve never seen-

“**_And now_**,” we all hear Jackson Starr intone, “**_its time for WCRP’s nightly Lottery Drawing, brought to you by Samuel’s Steakhouse, the best Western steaks in Omaha!_**”

“_And… go!_” the director’s voice says inside my headset.

I click the trigger, and a small red light goes on in my viewer. Trixie and me are live.

Trixie, her smile plastered across her face, is motionless.

A full five seconds tick by.

“Go!” we all hear Barry stage-whisper to her. “Go, _go!_”

Never breaking that smile, Trixie fumbles about, finally locating the Lottery machine button. She has to bend forward a bit to do it, and I see a nice view of that deep cleavage. Ohhhhhh nice.

Fabulous Tits pushes the button, and the machine whirls to life, sending the little white balls flying about under the glass dome.

“Oh!” cries Trixie, unprepared for this commotion. She steps back. “Um…”

“_Pick a ball, sweetheart!_” Barry practically screams. “_Just pick one!_”

“Oh, right,” says Trixie, studying the Lottery Machine. There’s a second button on the top that allows one ping pong ball into the display tube. But the girl doesn’t seem to see it.

Jesus, its 6:32 PM. We’re supposed to be back on the News. Mabel would have rattled off all seven Lottery numbers and been on her way home by now.

“Oh! Oh, I got it!” Trixie announces, and clicks the latch that holds the dome on top of the machine.

Barry cries, “Wait, wait, no…!”

Too late. The dome pops open, and hundreds of ping pong balls fly all over the studio. I actually can’t see anything through my camera for a second or two as the white spheres bounce off the lens.

“I got one!” shouts Trixie in triumph. In my viewer, I clearly see her extend a single ball towards me, and the viewers. Trixie is holding the 8 ball, sideways.

“The first number,” she says proudly, “is **_Double Zeroes!_**”

*********


	2. She Can Do the Weather, Right?

** _Chuck, WCRP Station Manager_ **

Okay, Trixie wasn’t meant for Lottery Drawing. I would have thought that job was too simple for my retarded cousin Louie to mess up, but here we are. Hmm.

She was terrible as the gardener’s assistant on our Morning Garden show. She wore a low-cut plaid top, and every time she knelt in the dirt, Hank the cameraman kept drifting into her cleavage. She also fucked up the midday traffic report, confusing Route 6 with Route 64, and worse. She dropped the cake batter on our Mothers’ Cooking Show, and then lit the kitchen set on fire… but we got a nice shot of her ass as she bent over to put cookies in the oven. Before she burnt them.

Jesus, what’s left?

Maybe I’ll have Trixie fill in as the Weather Girl? Brenda is out for two weeks for vacation, after all. And what does the Weather Girl have to do? Just stand before the map, recite the lines from the cue cards, and point to the stormcloud icons. Trixie could do that.

Right?

*********

** _Jackson Starr, WCRP Lead Anchor_ **

** _Claims Age is: 37_ **

** _Actual Age: 56_ **

I could have gone to the nationals. Its true, you know. NBC News was scouting me, and my agent was getting some good feedback from ABC News, too.

But then, I got Wendy pregnant. Her parents insisted on a marriage, and I couldn’t risk the scandal. In a conservative state like Nebraska, such things can sink a guy, you know. So I married Wendy, moved to Elmwood Park, and agreed to anchor for WCRP. It stands for W-CRAP, if you ask me.

So now, I’m the biggest fish in the tiny pond.

Maybe its not too late? Maybe if I could get Wendy to leave her parents behind, and relocate to LA, I could join the CBS Desk out there. Or as a foreign correspondent? That could work, don’t you think? “_This is Jackson Starr, reporting on the scene here in Tehran, where the situation on the ground had never been more volatile…_”

Ah, who’m I kidding?

I’m… er, thirty-seven, got three stinking, bratty kids, and I haven’t been to the gym in ten years. No amount of sucking in your gut will gloss that over.

I devoted the prime of my career to WCRP. So I figure, WCRP owes me.

*********

So the day after we screwed up the Lottery Drawing – **_how do you fuck up the Lottery Drawing?_** – Chuck, our Station Manager, calls me into his office.

“Listen, Jackson,” he says gingerly, “I was going to have Tom do the Weather segment tonight. But I’d like to give the new girl a try.”

“The new girl?” I say, not liking the sound of this.

“Yeah, Trixie,” nods Chuck, his voice going soft. “Look, she’s a little green. So help her out, will ya?”

_Amateurs_, I think contemptuously. I should have been on a National Desk.

*********

The next day, I meet our new Weather Girl. **_Oh, my word!_** This girl looks like Rita Heyworth, Ava Gardner, and Natalie Wood, perfectly blended together and then reimagined as an eighteen-year-old sexpot. I’m stunned at her breathtaking smile, her delicate green eyes, those gentle lips, her graceful shoulders, her handsome chest, swirly hips, and sensuous legs. She’s wearing a plain brown dress that nonetheless advertises her every curve. The skirt is short, and the top four buttons of her top are undone, allowing you to peak down and see the creamy white tops of her breasts.

Ohhhhhhhh…!

I now know I want from WCRP.

We’re on the newsdesk set, and its an hour before airtime. “Jackson, this is Trixie,” Chuck smiles, his eyes never leaving our dazzling new Weather Girl. “She, uh, she’s a big fan.”

To my delight, the young broad hops into the chair next to me and grabs my hand. “Oh, I am, I really am!” she blushes. Her brown hair tumbles over her shoulders, almost reaching for me. I wonder what fragrance she uses in the shower…

This girl is fabulously beautiful. The Mayor should declare her to be the Girl with the Fabulous Beauty.

“Well, Tricia,” I grin, “welcome to the news biz.” I force myself into a professional expression. “You are, of course, trained for this kind of work?”

“Well…” the girl says.

“She’ll be fine,” Chuck cuts in quickly. With a lopsided smile, he wistfully adds, “She’ll be just fine…!”

I notice that the crew is uncharacterically quiet. In fact, they’re all standing about and ogling the girl. Hank, that junior cameraman, is actually wheeling his camera forward now to shoot her. Even Stephen, that queer boy on Makeup, is hanging about, smitten.

Uh-uh. This won’t do. The only man here who’s gonna shag this girl is gonna be **_me_**. Time to crack the whip and let the peons around here know just who is at the top of the totem pole.

“Well, listen, Tricia,” I say, reaching to put an arm around the girl’s shoulders, “why don’t you ‘n me go back to my office? I can teach you the most important part of being an anchorman.”

The girl’s eyes light up. “**_Would_** you?” she exclaims.

My word, she’s even more beautiful than ever. I can’t wait to see her naked.

“Of course!” I say grandly, taking her hands and pulling her to her feet. I can see her neatly-painted toenails in her open-toe shoes. Then, as the rest of the crew and the producers stare after me resentfully, I sweep the Girl with the Fabulous Beauty out of the soundstage.

*********

I actually have the largest office at WCRP, up on the tenth floor of our studio building. There’s a panorama view of downtown, and whenever I interview the Mayor or local dignitaries, I try to woo them up here. Vice President Mondale’s coming to town in two weeks, and I hope I can talk his people to bringing him up here.

But now, with sexy Tricia in tow, I shut the door and then push the button that automatically closes the shades. The room darkens as the Hi-Fi starts playing soft jazz. Nice. But I should have installed a wet bar up here.

“Heeeeey baby,” I say, drawing close to Tricia.

“Hi there,” she giggles. “So, is this part of newsman training, or something?”

“Or something,” I grin, feeling myself becoming erect. I stand close to her, so our bodies are touching.

I love this sense of power. Soon, I’ll snap my fingers, she’ll take off her clothes, and then bend over to let me see her butthole. As it should be.

Tricia thinks for a moment, then shrugs. She lays her hands against my chest. But when I draw in to kiss her, she pulls back.

“I’m shy…” she blushes.

Is this groovy chick for real?

“No need to be shy with me, baby,” I assure her, and move in for the kiss again.

“No really,” she murmurs. “I’m really, really shy.” In a soft voice, she adds, “Can’t we just talk about how to do the news?”

Jesus, is this broad **_dense_**. Doesn’t she know how the game is played?

Fine.

“Okay, doll,” I say easily, striding over to the sofa. “Let me tell you Rule Number One in the TV News business. You gotta look good on the camera. You gotta look good, from head to toe. You dig what I’m saying?”

“Yeah,” Tricia says eagerly, moving to sit beside me.

“Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah,” I warn her. “Sweetheart, you’ve got the face for TV, no doubt. But do you have the body?”

Tricia pauses, glancing at the clock. “The body?” she says stupidly.

“Yeah,” I leer, making a show of stretching my arms across the back of the couch and crossing my legs at the ankle. “Take off your dress, babe. Let me see you.”

“Aw, com’on,” I urge when she hesitates. “Its just us two professionals.”

Tricia considers this, then turns her back to me. I can see that she’s unbuttoning her dress.

After what seems like hours, she’s undone the front of the dress, and slides it off her shoulders, her arms, and then down over her hips. The discarded cloth flutters to her shoes.

I can’t resist an exhale of amazement. Oh **_fuck me_**, this girl is even more luscious out of her clothes than I imagined! Usually, when you get a hot broad alone for the first time and you, ah, **_encourage_** her to take it all off, the reality of her naked body can’t live up to your imagination. You know, the girl’s boobs are saggy or her ass has cellulite or there are love handles over her belly, things like that.

But Tricia?

Tricia would make a Barbie doll envious with her womanly proportions. Despite her generous curves, there’s not an inch of body fat on her! I can see every back muscle, gentle flexing under her perfect skin as she moves. She’s the sexiest study of anatomy I’ve ever seen.

“Turn around,” I whisper, surprised to hear how hoarse my voice is.

Tricia rotates about, and now I can see her head-to-toe in nothing but her bra and panties. The garments are small and light beige, but one size too small. That brassiere, in particular, is straining to hold her girls against her chest. I can see her breasts jiggle as she shifts her weight from one hip to another.

“Take it all off,” I quietly command. God, I’m rock-hard.

To my amazement, Tricia smiles playfully. “Now, that doesn’t seem fair,” she flirts. “I’m to be naked, and you just sit there?” She adds in a husky voice, “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours…”

That old line? I’m tempted to bark at her, to remind her who has the power here. She wants a job on my news show, right? Who is **_she_** to give **_me_** orders?

But…

I’m about to fuck this girl. I could do it by demanding sex from her… or I could play along. Sometimes, if you let the ladies think they have a little power, they get wet quicker and enjoy it more when you enter them.

Eh, why not? She’s gonna see Little Jackson soon enough.

I plant my feet, lift my hips, then unzip my pants. I push both pants and undies down, enjoying the moment when she sees my cock spring into view. Her eyes go wide with delight, and an embarrassed hand covers her mouth.

“Yeeeeah,” I smirk, stroking myself a little. “You want this, don’t you?”

“Ooo, I do, baby,” smiles Tricia. “But shouldn’t we be back in the studio by now?”

“We got time,” I promise her. “Broadcast’s not until 6 PM, remember?”

“Well, its 5:57,” she tells me.

Instantly, my erection melts. No! **_5:57???_** It can’t be! Why, we only-

I twist around to look at the clock behind me. Sure enough, its 5:57. The girl can tell time.

“Fuck!” I shout, leaping to my feet. “Fuck! Fuck! Get dressed!”

*********

Tricia and I hurry back to the soundstage. Everyone is there, all ready, the cameras pointing at the empty newsdesk. I ignore the glares of the crew and rush into position. I can hear our Action News 37 Theme Song playing.

As the lights come up, I see Tricia settle into the seat next to mine. She’s off-camera, but I want her close to me for the broadcast. Otherwise, one of the stations’ lowlifes will make a move on her, I’m sure of it.

Tonight’s lead stories are typed up and in a neat pile before me. I smooth my hair and straighten my tie.

“_And now… here’s your Action News 37 Anchorman… Jackson Starr!_” our announcer cries over the speakers. The lights come up on me. I see the red FILMING light activate on the camera.

Its showtime.

“Good evening, Omaha,” I say crisply. “Tonight’s top story-“

“Oh, Jackie…?” Tricia leans over, using a terribly conspicuous stage voice. “Just wanted to let you know: Your fly’s open.”

The words freeze in my brain. I can see the jaws of everyone on the crew drop wide open.

“Er, yeah…” I mumble, wondering if, indeed, my fly is still open. Did I rezip it? I can’t bloomin’ remember I think I rezipped it oh God maybe if I check really really quickly…

Twenty years of camera training go out the window as I glance downward. **_Fuck!_** My fly **_is_** wide open!

Before I can stop myself, I hurriedly zip it shut. The audible _zzzzzzzzzzzzzip!_ is quite loud, indeed.

“Uh… tonight’s top story…” I continue with all the dignity I can muster.

*********

Somehow I get through the bank robbery on Burt and North 30th, the farmhands’ strike, and the Schuler embezzlement scandal.

“And now,” I say, trying to fake a cheerful demeanor, “its time, once again, for your Action Weather, right here on WCRP 37. Tricia, our Action Weather Girl, is here with-“

“Its **_Trixie_**,” the bimbo interrupts me.

“Uh?” I grunt, surprised.

“Trixie,” the sexy brunette trills, smiling into the camera. “I’m Trixie Mathers.” With a haughty wink, she adds, “**_Your_** Weather Girl, Omaha!” And then, she actually blows a sexy kiss into the camera.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hank, the cameraman, swoon.

“So, Tr-Tr-Trixie,” I stammer, “looks like we’re due for a **_hot one tomorrow_**, eh?”

“No Jackson,” Trixie says, standing and reading her cue cards in a monotone. “Its going to be a hot one tomorrow folks a heat wave is moving in from all the way up north here…” She points to the center of the map. “…and the rains we were hoping for will pass us by as they head south oh dear temperatures in the high nineties but next week the national weather advisory service says that we should expect a nine-zero percent chance of per… per… participation?” She stops and squints. “Participation? Participate in **_what?_** Like, a football game?”

Oh, Jesus. I gotta save this.

“Well, Tricia,” I mug.

“Trixie!”

“Trixie,” I say, “sounds like the next few days will be ideal for sitting by the pool, eh?”

I’m ad-libbing banter. This is a critical skill for any professional anchorman. Sometimes, the producers need a few extra seconds between segments, so I have to engage in a little mindless blather. It helps smooth over bumpy moments in the show. Like now.

“What?” Tricia says to me, her expression blank.

“You know,” I grin widely. “Its gonna be hot, so… you might want to get in your bikini and sit around the pool, right?”

I’m a freakin’ genius. I’ve just invited our male audience to imagine sexy Tricia in her bikini, which will erase any bad memories of this broadcast. Sometimes you just need a little sex appeal to distract the masses.

“You want me in a bikini?” Tricia asks. “Why? You just saw me in my underwear, before the show.”

** _Oh fuck._ **

“We’ll be right back!!!” I cry into the camera, then gesture for a commercial.

*********


	3. Bringing Trixie Under Control

** _One Month Later…_ **

** _Chuck, WCRP Station Manager_ **

“**_You fucking assholes!_**” Gwen Harbors screeches, practically rattling the windows.

I cringe. Old Widow Harbors is WCRP’s owner. The only time she ever comes into the office is to scream at us about something. I know what’s pissed her off this time.

“I’m gone, out of the country, for **_one fucking month_**,” rages Harbors, waving her cigarette holder in the air and scattering ashes. “And what do I find you lower primates doing with **_my station_** in my absence?” She shoots a fiery glare down the boardroom table. “You’ve made us the laughing stock of the whole Midwest!”

The WCRP management staff and I are locked up in the conference room, sweating it out under Harbors’ tirade. She can go on for hours when properly enraged. I would try diving under the table and digging through the floor with my bare hands to escape, if I thought I could actually do it.

Old Widow Harbors must be about seventy, but she has the energy of a woman half her age. Tall, thin, with garish clothes and one mighty outlandish wig, she’s kind of like a real-life Cruella de Ville, except twice as horrible. If I ever die and go to Hell, I’ll bet Old Widow Harbors will be there to chew me out for all eternity.

“Now I wanna know,” Harbors thunders, “who’s idea was it to put **_the bimbo_** on our shows?”

The Bimbo, **_of course_**, is Trixie.

Everyone at the table shifts their eyes to me.

“Well?” hollers our employer.

I sheepishly raise my hand.

“Why???” yells Harbors, making me jump.

“Well, uh…” I think fast.

My staff tries to save me. “Well,” Barry quickly chimes in, “she is the Girl with the Fabulous…”

“Fabulous **_what?_**” growls Harbors.

“…stage presence,” Barry finishes, then swallows.

“She’s great for ratings,” pipes up Herbie from Research.

I let out a sweet breath of relief. Oh, thank God for Herbie!

“Eh?” Old Widow Harbors grunts.

“Its true,” Herbie promises, pulling out his ringbinder. “We’ve never run Trixie… er, Miss Mathers on more than one segment in a row. But viewers highly rated each of the shows where she appeared.”

“**_Male_** viewers,” grumbled Betty from PR.

“She’s gotten the station some good press,” says Barry hopefully. “Uh, Herbie, do you have that clipping…?”

Herbie hold up a page from The Omaha Star: YOUNG WOMAN DIVERTS PARADE. I’d picked Trixie to lead the WCRP float in our Fourth of July parade… and she got confused and led our people down South 24th Street and out of the Historic District. The police were too smitten with her in that tight little baton twirler’s outfit.

“This is good for us?” yells Harbors.

Herbie begins, “We’ve gotten more fan mail this month-“

“Hold on!” declares Betty. Surprisingly, she seems to be on Old Widow Harbor’s side. “We get lots of letters from **_men_**, asking for Miss Mathers’ photograph. Or her phone number. But we’ve also gotten a ton of letters like these…”

She clears her throat, then reads a small, handwritten letter aloud:

_Dear WCRP,_

_I once thought your station was a promoter of good, wholesome, American values. This was why I didn’t mind if my young Johnny watched your programs when he came home from school. But ever since you allowed that Miss Trixie Mathers onto Mr. Anderson’s Make-Believe Animal Hour, Little Johnny has been very fixated on women’s breasts. He was also upset when Miss Mathers used the Mr. Peebles puppet as a handkerchief when she suddenly had to sneeze._

_As a good, Christian woman, I can no longer support your station. Shame on you for corrupting America!_

_Sincerely,_

_Mrs. Jane Winthorn_

“**_You see???_**” roars Old Widow Harbors, causing us all to jump once more. “This is what you’ve brought upon us!”

“Eh… Well…” I stammer.

Harbors pokes a bony finger at me. “The little wench doesn’t get back on the air, you get me?”

“Waitaminute, waitaminute…!” George from Ad Revenue says. “We can’t just drop her!”

“No?” screeches Harbors.

George holds up his own pile of papers. “In the last week, I’ve gotten approached by seventy new businesses, all looking to advertise on our shows!”

This catches Old Widow Harbors off-guard. “…seventy?”

“Seventy,” George confirms. “Benson’s Liquor and Cigars… The Stallion Billiards Club… Zucker Sports Bar and Grill… Sweaty Iron Gym…”

“Businesses for guys,” Betty says, her eyes accusing.

“Well, yes,” says George. “And they all have one request. They want programming featuring Trixie Mathers.” He shrugs. “Seems to me, if we don’t put her on the air… someone else will.”

There’s a heavy silence in the boardroom now.

Old Widow Mathers swings on me now. “Find a program we have,” she growls. “But something where the dumb bitch just has to stand there. Don’t give her lines. Don’t give her responsibilities. Don’t give her anything except for a skimpy outfit and something **_after_** the 9 PM time slot. Get me?”

“Yes ma’am,” I say quickly.

*********

Its eight hours later. The evening broadcast went okay. We asked Trixie to do the evening sign-off, when WCRP goes off the air for the night. Every night at 12:01 AM, we show the American flag, hanging in our studio, while we play the Star-Spangled Banner.

Trixie hadn’t been on camera all day, and she was getting suspicious. “When’s my turn?” she pouted to me. “I just wanna be on for, like, a minute! Please, Chuck, **_I just gotta be on TV!_**”

(When she whines like that, Trixie sounds like a little girl. But somehow, I can’t resist her pleading green eyes.)

So we literally gave her the last minute of our broadcast day. For Christsakes, all Trixie had to do was **_stand next to the flag_** and **_salute it_** while we played the damned music. That’s it.

But – Trixie being Trixie – Trixie decided to **_sing_** the anthem as we played it. And that girl cannot carry a tune. I’m sure we offended every World War II veteran in the city.

“Uggggghhh, whaddawe gonna do?” I moan to Barry.

He and I are at the Glover Tavern, the upscale bar two blocks from our studio. I like coming here because (A) its close, (B) its open late, and (C) most of WCRP’s idiot staff can’t afford to drink here.

Barry and I are at a table in the back, facing the little stage. Usually, there’s a live band in here.

I’m on my third Scotch. All I’ve done since escaping the clutches of Her Horribleness, Old Widow Harbors, is rack my brain: **_How in God’s name can I put Trixie on camera, and yet not fuck up another show???_**

*********

** _Barry, WCRP Line Producer_ **

Poor Chuck. The guy’s at the end of his rope. He should really think about changing careers. I’ve heard that Omaha Community College is looking for a Film and Production instructor…

I gotta admit it, though, we’re in a pretty pickle. Trixie is gorgeous on the eyes, but Kryptonite for our shows. Every time she gets on camera, I want to strangle her. But then she bends over, I see that ass, and all I want to do is pet her. She really **_is_** the Girl with the Fabulous Ass.

As Chuck is signaling for his fourth Scotch – oh man – the lights on the little stage come up. What, is there a band tonight after all?

“_Laaaaaaadies and gentlemen,_” a dork in a bad suit appears on the stage, holding a cheap microphone, “_are you in for a treat tonight! Put yourself together for… Henry the Illustrious, Amazing Hypnotist!!!_”

The dork grins and gestures for clapping, and its soon embarrassingly evident that he is Henry the Hypnotist. The applause is scattered, unenthusiastic, and very, very brief.

Jesus. I kinda want to shoot the guy myself to put him out of his misery.

Henry, however, is undaunted. “_So, ladies and gentlemen,_” he preens, “_how many of you have seen a hypnotist show before?_”

Not a single damn hand goes up.

“_A few of you, that’s good,_” Henry plows on. “_Well, tonight, ladies and gentlemen, you will become…_” and here he drops his voice an octave for effect “_…the **STARS OF THE SHOW!**_” He grins for more applause, of which there is none. “_So, ladies and gents, who wants to come up on stage and get hypnotized? Who? Who, now?_”

The audience, including Chuck and me, sit perfectly still.

“_No-one…?_” Henry says, his shiteating grin fading. “_Really? I mean…? No-one?_”

I pause to examine this Henry a little more closely. He’s in his early thirties, thin as a beanstalk, with an uncombable sprout of blonde hair at the top of his head. He moves with a lot of energy, but this doesn’t translate to confidence at all. No, its more like the jumpy little fellow needs to run to the bathroom. His face is narrow and his ears stick out. I’ll bet his momma thinks he’s handsome… but nobody else.

“_No-one?_” says Henry in exasperation.

At the table before Chuck and me, a burly fellow elbows his date. “G’won,” he coaxes her. “G’won up there. Throw the dweeb a bone.”

“Ew,” the young lady with him sneers. “You go.”

“I dare ya,” Burly taunts. “C’mon, Patty.”

Patty snorts. “Whaddya give me if I do?”

Burly thinks. “You can… drive the Mustang for a week,” he offers.

Patty laughs, then moves up to join a relieved Henry on the stage.

Huh. I guess Patty is a bit of a hustler. Burly certainly seems surprised.

At the same time, a fat guy in his mid-fifties has been prodded to go up on stage by his drinking buddies. Now the crowd is hooting and stomping their feet. The fat guy looks annoyed.

“_Excellent, excellent!_” Henry crows, signaling for quiet. “_Now, I’ll need five minutes with my victims- ahhhh, volunteers, okay?_” He winks, a corny gesture. “_Five minutes, okay?_”

Then Henry inserts in mike onto the mike stand. He stands before Patty and Fat Guy, and begins speaking to them in a rapid, low voice.

*********

** _Twenty minutes later…_ **

Oh my God! This is **_hysterical!_**

Patty and Fat Guy are completely convinced that they are **_hula dancers!_** They’re dancing back and forth across the stage, wiggling their hips and hands like crazy, but keeping their shoulders and arms perfectly still. Fat Guy, in particular, has a look of dazed tranquility on his face.

The little audience is roaring with laughter. Even the bar staff is guffawing mightily.

“_And now…_” Henry the Hypnotist says into his mike, “**_CHANGE!_**” He snaps his fingers, loudly.

Patty and Fat Guy blink. They stop dancing. They hunch forward, let their tongues out of their mouths, and begin panting. They think they’re cocker spaniels.

“Woof!” barks Fat Guy. “Woof, woof!”

Patty skips around a bit, then goes to smell Fat Guy’s butt.

*********

** _Chuck, WCRP Station Manager_ **

An epiphany hits me like a freight train. I grip Barry’s arm.

“I know how we save the station,” I say excitedly.

*********

** _The Next Day…_ **

** _Stephen, WCRP Makeup Artist_ **

The call sheet for today doesn’t have anything unusual on it. So why did Chuck and the senior producers announce a special broadcast? I don’t get it.

Oh well. _Theirs not to reason why_, and all that. I’m supposed to make sure Trixie is in her tiniest dress yet, then make her beautiful. As I work on her in the makeup chair, I guess I look a little worried for her.

“What’s wrong?” Trixie asks me, her lovely voice melting my heart.

“Oh, nothing,” I lie.

The truth is, I just have this feeling that something bad’s gonna happen to the Girl with the Fabulous Face today. But I can’t figure out what.

*********

** _Hank, WCRP Cameraman_ **

I’m being pulled to film the Omaha Variety Hour, which is weird. I hate that corny show. Its all ballroom dancing and old ladies playing bingo. What the hell?

Oh well, overtime is overtime. And they’re putting on Trixie, the Girl with the Fabulous Tits. So I’ll have something hot to gaze at while I’m working. Groovy.

*********

** _Jackson Starr, WCRP Lead Anchor_ **

Now that Mrs. Starr and I are getting a divorce… don’t ask… I have no reason to go home.

I’m about to drive to my hotel, when I hear that that Tricia – the Girl with the Fabulous Beauty, right? – is gonna be on Omaha Variety. A part of me wants to destroy that little minx for pretty much broadcasting to the world that we were about to have sex… but Goddamnit, I still haven’t gotten her into bed yet, either.

That does it. I’m hanging out here tonight. Once shooting’s over, I’ll swoop in, grab Tricia, spirit her away. Then I’ll promise to mentor her and whatever, and keep pouring on the charm until her lips are around my cock. Then I’ll fuck her raw.

I’ve had a rough month. The universe owes me this.

*********

** _Chuck, WCRP Station Manager_ **

I wait patiently in my office. Trixie is usually late, but…

No! There she is.

For a moment, I see her, and I forget myself all over again. Gentlemen, have you ever met a **_uniquely_** beautiful woman? I mean, a woman so dazzling, you lose concentration because you want to admire every feature this woman has?

Trixie is like that, and beyond. You could show me a hundred pictures of models and actresses and beauty queens, and you’d never be able to erase Trixie from my mind. She’s Girl with the Deep Green Eyes.

And on top of that… she’s wearing this tight little white strapless dress, practically see-through. It clings to the undersides of her breasts, leaving the sides and the tops of her boobs completely exposed. The sheer fabric races down her lean torso, only to barely cover her crotch and her ass.

“Hey, Mr. Baker,” she giggles when she sees me, and those eyes sparkle. “You wanted to see me? What show am I doing tonight?”

“Trixie!” I say, leaping to my feet too quickly. “Er, come in, come in… Shut the door?”

Trixie pauses, but then shrugs and follows my instructions. Dumb broad.

“Now, Trixie,” I say, moving to lean against the front of my desk. “You know we’ve put you on every show we have here at WCRP… except one…”

“Right,” agrees Trixie. “The Omaha Variety Hour?”

“That’s right,” I nod.

Trixie cocks her gorgeous head to one side. “But… that’s a talent show? I haven’t prepared any talent.” Her eyes light up. “You want me to do some cheers?”

“No need,” I assure her. “Let me introduce you to… Henry the Illustrious, Amazing Hypnotist!” I gesture to the other person sitting in my office, just off to the side.

“Wait, what?” says Trixie, for once dropping the dumb-girl act.

Henry smoothly rises from his seat, offering Trixie his hand.

“You see,” I explain, “this week, we’re gonna preempt Omaha Variety to showcase a local talent, Henry here. I just need you to be his lovely assistant.”

“So, does that mean…” asks our resident beauty queen, “…does that mean that I get hypnotized?”

“Yes, of course, dear,” I say, surprised to find myself gloating a little.

Trixie doesn’t look happy. “I don’t want to be hypnotized.”

“Well,” I say with faked regret, “if you want to be on the air today, this is all we have. But I’m sure we could call up a local actress from Omaha casting…”

“It’ll be fine,” Henry assured Trixie. “Its actually a lot of fun to get hypnotized.”

I can tell: our hypnotist is as stunned by Trixie’s beauty as I am.

The sex goddess pouts her lips, thinking. It looks like a lot of hard work. Poor, poor dumb broad.

“Well…” she says slowly, “…I guess its okay… Just no making me into a chicken, okay?” She adds this last demand with a defiant finger pointed at Henry’s head.

The hypnotist nods. “No chickens. I promise.”

“Okay,” Trixie scowls. “When are we doing this?”

“Right here,” I tell her. “Right now.”

“Look into my eyes, Trixie,” Henry instructs, stepping forward. “Look into my eyes…”

*********


	4. The Omaha Variety Hour

** _Thirty Minutes Later…_ **

** _Barry, WCRP Line Producer_ **

I’m in the control room, sweating the clock with the rest of our technicians. Where is Chuck? Omaha Variety goes on in, like, a minute!

Oh, wait, there he is. Our Station Manager burst into the room, shooting glares at the production people. “We’re all set down on the stage,” he tells them. “The show is a go.”

There’s an audible sense of relief as the director takes over. “Lights to standby, ready on my cue,” he says into his headphone mike.

I stealthily make my way over to Chuck. “So…” I murmur under my breath. “Did it work…? Did Trixie get hypnotized?”

Chuck’s eyes go wide. He nods once, empathically.

I remember Patty the Entranced Girlfriend from last night’s show. Once under Henry’s spell, she seemed like she had no will of her own. Mmmm… Would Trixie be like that?

My imagination is off and running. _I imagine a mesmerized Trixie, taking orders from her hypnotist. “And now, Trixie,” Henry instructs, “you will bend over and let your good friend Barry feel your ass. Do you understand?”_

_“Yes, master,” Trixie responds without resistance._

_Henry snaps his fingers, and suddenly, I am exploring Trixie’s wonderful butt with my eager fingers! Oh my, her buttocks are so firm and…_

“I think I’ll watch the taping from the soundstage wings,” I announce casually.

“Yeah,” seconds Chuck. “Me too.”

*********

** _Hank, WCRP Cameraman_ **

I’m the primary cameraman on this show, which means I have to keep my shot on our guest performers throughout the entire broadcast. And that means I’ll be filming Trixie for a full hour. Heh. I can do that.

Now Trixie and our guest-of-the-week – some dweeb named Henry – are positioning themselves on the soundstage, just before my camera. Henry is in a terrible suit, but who cares? Trixie is wearing something white, skintight, and tiny. She looks positively naked in that little white dress. I’m getting a boner just centering this shot. God, that girl is beyond belief! Woof!

The theme music plays, and I listen to our announcer, reading from up in the booth: “**_Good evening Omaha! Tonight, we’re bringing you a unique program. Ever wonder about the magic of hypnotism? Well, tonight, our EXPERT HYPNOTIST will show you what it can do!_**”

We cue the canned applause as the lights come up on Henry and Trixie.

Hypnosis? Did I hear that right? What the fuck is going on?

*********

** _Stephen, WCRP Makeup Artist_ **

I’m not due back in Makeup for another hour, so I can hang out and watch the filming of Omaha Variety.

Hypnotism? Did the announcer say hypnotism? Are they gonna hypnotize Trixie?

Oh, God.

*********

** _Jackson Starr, WCRP Lead Anchor_ **

Perfect. From back here, I can watch them film Omaha Variety, and no-one sees me.

Holy cats, there’s Trixie, and the girl looks even hotter than ever! They’ve got her in an outfit that would make a Vegas cocktail waitress blush. I admire her bare legs and the tops of those bouncing breasts.

I’m gonna enjoy seducing her. Tonight’s the night.

*********

** _Hank, WCRP Cameraman_ **

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” Henry the Hypnotist Guy beams into my camera. “Have any of you ever wondered what hypnotism can do? Well, tonight we’ll find out, thanks to the help of my lovely assistant. Let’s have a round of applause for the beautiful… Trixie Mathers!”

More canned applause.

No way. They’re gonna hypnotize Trixie? I wonder why she agreed to let them. She looks pretty spacey right now, actually. Maybe the broad’s dumber than I thought?

*********

** _Stephen, WCRP Makeup Artist_ **

  1. MY. GOD. They **_are_** going to hypnotize Trixie! Oh, this can’t be good.

*********

** _Jackson Starr, WCRP Lead Anchor_ **

Hypnotize Trixie? Kiiiiiinky. Me likee.

*********

** _Barry, WCRP Line Producer_ **

I find myself watching Trixie closely. She looks a little unfocused, but otherwise fine.

“You sure this is gonna work?” I whisper to Chuck. He waves me off.

*********

** _Hank, WCRP Cameraman_ **

Trixie rolls her eyes and folds her arms over that perky chest.

“I hate to tell you, Henry,” she says plainly, “but I can’t be hypnotized.”

She doesn’t sound like she’s acting. Hell, I’ve seen Trixie act; she was never this convincing.

“No?” Henry asks, looking worried.

“No,” says Trixie. “Sorry.”

And then – I swear to God – Henry waves one hand over Trixie’s face. “**_SLEEP_**,” he commands her.

And instantly, Trixie’s face goes blank. Her eyes close. Her arms drop to her sides. She’s asleep!

She’s **_hypnotized!_**

*********

** _Stephen, WCRP Makeup Artist_ **

Oh my God!!!

*********

** _Jackson Starr, WCRP Lead Anchor_ **

Oh my… word!

*********

** _Barry, WCRP Line Producer_ **

My eyes pop. She’s under! **_Trixie is in Henry’s power!_**

Oh, God, oh God, oh God. My heart starts to flutter like a panicked bird. In an instant, I forget my wedding vows, my kids, my Catholic upbringing, everything… Suddenly, all I want is to pay Henry every last red cent in my bank account so that I can feel that gorgeous ass.

*********

** _Chuck, WCRP Station Manager_ **

This was a brilliant idea. I’m a fucking genius.

*********

** _Hank, WCRP Cameraman_ **

It is all I can do to keep the camera steady. There, in the center of my lens, is a spellbound Trixie Mathers, helpless and ready to obey her master. I’ve never thought about hypnotism a day in my life. But now I’m a true believer. The boner in my pants is about to bust through the zipper.

“And now, Trixie,” Henry says conversationally, resting a hand on his lovely subject’s shoulder, “I will count to three. On three you will awaken, remembering nothing. But every time I touch your shoulder, just like this…” He raises, then lowers his hand, once. “…you will immediately believe you are a go-go dancer, in a contest for Go-Go Champion of the World. You will dance as hard as you can, determined to win that prize. You will dance until I snap my fingers. And then, you will forget these suggestions, **_and_** you will forget you were dancing at all. Do you understand?”

“Yes, master,” Trixie says flatly.

*********

** _Jackson Starr, WCRP Lead Anchor_ **

“_Master???_” She just called that wimpy little twerp “_Master?_” This hypnosis has possibilities.

*********

** _Barry, WCRP Line Producer_ **

Trixie actually called him “Master!” She is his slave! Oh, God.

How much is in the Checking Account? $500?

*********

** _Hank, WCRP Cameraman_ **

Through my lens, I watch Henry the Hypnotist count rapidly, then snap his fingers. Trixie comes back to life, apparently not aware anything had happened at all. Henry is careful to remove his hand and slip it into his jacket pocket.

“So, Trixie,” he says grandly, “you sure you can’t be hypnotized?”

“Yeah, quite sure,” Trixie nods, still blinking. “I just don’t believe in it.”

“Why not?”

“Because only weak-willed people can be hypnotized,” explains Trixie. “In fact-“

She never gets any farther. Like a striking snake, Henry’s hand leaps from his pocket and hands on her shoulder.

Instantly, Trixie’s face transforms. Her eyelids half-close, and she adopts the sexiest _fuck-me_ face I’ve ever seen on a woman. Seriously, this gaze could make even a devout priest melt with lust.

Trixie bends her knees, so she can shake her bubble-butt back and forth. At the same time, she spreads her arms out to the sides and begins popping her chest up and down, up and down. Her tits are practically dancing all on their own as she moves. I stare, unable to believe what I’m seeing.

As she surrenders to music we cannot hear, the hypnotized Trixie begins to dance around the stage, almost making sure to sway her butt and shoulders in rhythm. She twists. She shimmies. She glides. She moves like a sexual cat. She’s really graceful.

I watch those jigging boobs, and I am so aroused.

*********

** _Stephen, WCRP Makeup Artist_ **

Oh my God!

You know… a very serious part of me is gay and will always be gay and I don’t think that will ever, ever change, but now, right now, I’m watching Trixie, and I’m thinking that maybe, just maybe, I’m actually bisexual, you know, just a little bit, and maybe I shouldn’t completely close the book on women oh God watching Trixie right now makes me wonder if this homosexuality thing was a mistake and is that a boner in my pants…?

Wait, what am I saying???

Lordy, that woman is hot. Phew!

*********

** _Jackson Starr, WCRP Lead Anchor_ **

I’m breathless. Trixie is a killer dancer, making her already-peerless body even more desirable than before.

That’s it. The universe has teased me enough. I want her, I don’t care what my wife takes in the divorce. I’ll hire this Henry the Hypnotist guy, have him mesmerize Trixie again, and then the hot little minx can call me “Master” in the bedroom and dance for me like that every night!

Ohhhhhh yeeeeeeah….!

*********

** _Barry, WCRP Line Producer_ **

“Oh my God,” Chuck breathes next to me. He may need his heart medication.

“Did you… have any… idea?” I ask him, unable to take my eyes off Trixie’s swaying ass. Her perfect, bouncing, swaying ass. Its hard to think right now.

“I had some idea,” admitted Chuck. “After he put Trixie under, Henry did some hypnosis tests on her. You know, to get a sense of what she’d do or not do once he got into her mind.”

“And?” I have to know.

“She’s an **_exceptional_** hypnotic subject,” Chuck says softly. “Exceptional. When she’s under, she can’t resist anything he tells he to do.”

I may be developing heart conditions myself. “…anything?” I ask feebly.

“Anything,” Chuck nods. “I was planning on hypnotizing her for this one show. You know, just to make it so that we control her, for once. Make her get through one broadcast without another fuck-up. But now…”

Our station manager rubs his jaw, making evil plans. “Now, I’m thinking that we put Henry on the station payroll. **_Keep_** Trixie under our control. If we can keep hypnotizing her, we can use her however we want. And make a fortune.”

“And grope her ass,” I say absently.

“Eh?” Chuck frowns.

Shit! Did I say that out loud?

*********

** _Stephen, WCRP Makeup Artist_ **

My gay brothers will totally disown me… but fuck it. I have to know. Am I totally gay or not?

After the show, I’ll approach that Henry guy. I’ll offer him whatever he wants – massages, home cooking, a makeover, my trust fund – if he’ll only make Trixie make out with me for half an hour. If I suck face with her… and maybe get a little naked… **_then_** I’ll know. And knowing will be worth it…

Won’t it?

*********

** _Hank, WCRP Cameraman_ **

Oh fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

I have a buddy who went to LA to shoot underground porn. I’ve thought about joining him, but its too risky. Here at WCRP, I’m in the Union and I don’t worry about getting arrested for indecency.

But filming Trixie… Jesus, under these lights, she **_looks_** naked. I’m transfixed by those dancing tits. I feel like I’m shooting porn.

“And now, Trixie…!” shouts out Henry. He snaps his fingers, once, right before her face.

Trixie drops her sexy expression and the dance is over. “I just don’t think I can be hypnotized,” she explains patiently.

“**_SLEEP_**,” Henry commands her. Trixie is out like a light.

Holy fucking shit. She’s his slave. She’ll do whatever he demands. He owns her mind.

I gotta get together with this guy, like, **_immediately_** after this shoot. I’ll give him whatever he wants. My Harley Davidson? Its his. My Heavy Metal LPs? Also his. I’ll even fix up his car and give him free oil changes for a year. I’ll be this dude’s slave. If he just turns Trixie into mine.

I gotta get my hands on those tits…!

*********

** _Chuck, WCRP Station Manager_ **

I watch Henry demonstrate his absolute control over Trixie, over and over again. Under his commands, she thinks she’s Diana Ross, then a lioness, then Jimmy Carter’s spoiled brat. She is compelled to flirt with Henry, then she sees him as a slimy ogre. She robotically repeats complete nonsense phrases when he triggers her.

The sexiest? Towards the end of the show, Trixie has to say, “_I am hypnotized, and I love it, Master,_” every time Henry touches his own forehead. He triggers her, like, ten times.

I’m fifty-four years old, and I nearly cream my own trousers like a kid in puberty when he does this.

God, immediately after the show… I’m spilling the WCRP budget to make Henry make Trixie suck my dick. I want to watch those sparkling green eyes shine as she goes down on me.

*********


	5. The Spare Lot

** _One Hour Later…_ **

** _Chuck, WCRP Station Manager_ **

Okay, Variety Hour just wrapped up. The show’s over. We’re off the air. The control booth is getting ready for our last program of the evening, Omaha Book Club.

I couldn’t care less. Henry the Hypnotist is about to leave. I have to bribe the little dork **_tonight_**. I have to have Trixie **_tonight_**. I’m so horny.

Hey… where is Henry?

*********

** _Barry, WCRP Line Producer_ **

I made my excuses, and now I’ve ducked out of the soundstage. Luckily, I have the family checkbook with me. I’ll figure out how to explain the $500 deduction to my wife later. Where’s Henry?

*********

** _Hank, WCRP Cameraman_ **

Goddamnit, it took a full hour to unload my camera and sign it back into WCRP storage. Why does the house manager move so damn slowly?

Whatever. Where’s Trixie? And more importantly, where’s that hypnotist?

*********

** _Stephen, WCRP Makeup Artist_ **

Okay, the Makeup Shop is locked up for the night. Now I gotta find Henry.

God, what do I say? “_Hi there, Henry boyfriend, could you do me a square one and brainwash Trixie to make out with me? I’ll be your pal._” Yikes.

*********

** _Jackson Starr, WCRP Lead Anchor_ **

It was hard, but I stayed hidden for the whole broadcast of Variety Hour. Now to find Henry the Hypnodude. I’m a charismatic fellow. I can bend the little geek to my will, right?

…but where the fuck is he?

*********

** _Chuck, WCRP Station Manager_ **

The lady who runs the telephone switchroom tells me that our callboard lit up, mostly from eager-sounding men wanting to know if they can get Henry’s business number. They’re also offering all kind of ridiculous crap for a hypno-date with Trixie.

Well, Old Widow Harbors should like the sound of that… at least, she’ll be pleased with the sheer number of callers, anyway.

Eh, who cares? **_Where the fuck is Henry?_**

*********

** _Barry, WCRP Line Producer_ **

I’ve been asking the crew, and no-one here has spotted Henry? Or Trixie? What the hell? They’ve both vanished?

*********

** _Hank, WCRP Cameraman_ **

God Bless the Prop Girl. You know, the chubby chick with acme all over her face? Who smells like Corn Fritos? I don’t know her name.

“The hypnotist?” she stares at me. “Oh yeah, I saw him. Not five minute ago. He was with that Trixie slut.” She gags.

My heart thuds. “Where’d they go?”

“Out to the Spare lot.”

“The Parking lot?” I **_couldn’t_** have heard that correctly.

“No, dumbass,” Prop Girl scowls. “How did Trixie turn you men into slobbering fools tonight? The **_Spare_** lot. The Spare parking lot.”

The Spare lot is literally an empty lot across the street from our studio. We only use it for those rare shows when we need to film outside.

“Wait,” I say, “…whaddya you mean, ‘_you men?’_”

“’Cause you’re the third man to ask me about Trixie and that hypnotist,” Prop Girl says pointedly. “I told them the same thing I just told you: They went out to the-“

“The Spare Lot, thanks,” I mutter angrily.

*********

** _Jackson Starr, WCRP Lead Anchor_ **

What’s that I just overheard the fat Prop Girl say? The hypnotist took Trixie out to the Spare lot?

*********

** _Chuck, WCRP Station Manager_ **

The Spare Lot isn’t much to look at. Its pretty much just a big patch of concrete, no painted lines for parking your car or any electric lights or anything. Once the sun goes down, it is pitch black out there. The station got the lot for a song when the old iron warehouse went under, three years back.

Now, here I am, creeping across the street, into total darkness, wondering what the fuck am I about to do? Why would Henry go here? It makes no sense!

Is it my imagination, or do I hear other footprints? Nah, can’t be. I’m the only dude sneaking out into the Spare Lot…

*********

** _Stephen, WCRP Makeup Artist_ **

God, the Spare Lot is creepy. Thank God I’m the only person sneaking out here in the dark. But… Jesus… if Omaha ever had a deranged psycho killer on the loose, he’d hide out here, ready to knife a sexually confused gay boy looking to make out with a hypnotized beauty queen-

Oh, fuck it.

Hey, I think I can see the outline of a pickup truck ahead. And I hear a voice! Is that… Trixie?

*********

** _Barry, WCRP Line Producer_ **

Thank God I wear sneakers to work every day. The Spare Lot is big and dark, but I’m not making any noise. And I’m all alone… perfect!

I think I hear Trixie up ahead. What’s she saying?

*********

** _Jackson Starr, WCRP Lead Anchor_ **

Imagine, Omaha’s most award-winning anchor, out here in the darkness of the Spare Lot, sneaking around like a common crook! If anyone hears about this-

Fuck it. I’ve got to have hypnotized Trixie. And I’m gonna beat the other fellows to her. **_That’s_** how I got to the top of the newsdesk, right? By scooping the competition!

Trixie’s in that pickup truck ahead, no doubt about it. Jesus, I can’t see a fucking thing!

*********

** _Hank, WCRP Cameraman_ **

The moonlight’s almost nonexistent, but I thought I saw Trixie’s hair, in the back of that pickup truck! She’s in there! What the fuck is she doing?

I thought I heard other footsteps out here in the Spare Lot… I must be creeping myself out.

*********

** _Barry, WCRP Line Producer_ **

Almost at the pickup truck…

Oh my God.

Trixie is babbling… because she’s having sex!

*********

** _Chuck, WCRP Station Manager_ **

Now I can hear Trixie. She’s trying to keep her voice down, but… She’s saying, “…yes, master! Oh, yes, master! Harder!”

Oh, God.

*********

** _Stephen, WCRP Makeup Artist_ **

Shit, **_Henry’s_** in the bed of that truck, too! I can hear him!

Him: “Fuck me harder, hypnoslave!”

Her: “Yes, master, I love being your hypnoslave… uh, uh, uh, Oh God…!”

Him: “Fuck me harder!”

*********

** _Hank, WCRP Cameraman_ **

Henry’s boning Trixie in the bed of his pickup truck??? I… I gotta hand it to him. The dude must drive around with a thick quilt for moments like these, or something. I can respect that.

Now that I’m close… and my eyes are adjusting… I can see Trixie in the extremely faint moonlight. I can only see her from the ribs on up. She’s nude, and bouncing up and down and those **_gorgeous_** tits are bouncing even more than she is! She arches her back, moaning in pleasure.

I get it now; she’s riding Henry’s cock, cowgirl-position. The little twerp is lying on his back in the bed of the truck, watching her bounce up and down.

Henry’s fucking Trixie?!? Fuck me!

*********

** _Jackson Starr, WCRP Lead Anchor_ **

Oh, no. No, no, no! Trixie was to be **_my_** slave!

Even as I watch in dismay, I gotta admire the view. Trixie naked is just as hot as I knew she would be. God, what a woman!

She begins thrashing her head about.

*********

** _Barry, WCRP Line Producer_ **

Oh, God. Henry got her first.

Fuck it, maybe I can still grope her ass? I still want to.

Meanwhile, Henry cries out, “You are even more under my power!” I see his thin, unclothed arm rise up from the truck bed, and his fingers snap once.

**********

** _Stephen, WCRP Makeup Artist_ **

Now poor Trixie’s gasping with joy, about to cum all over the place. “You are my master, I am your slave, I am your slave!” she babbles. “I am your slave, fuck me harder, master!”

*********

** _Chuck, WCRP Station Manager_ **

She’s close to orgasming. Goddamnit, I wanted her!

*********

** _Hank, WCRP Cameraman_ **

Motherfu…! This is like watching your best buddy drive off in your dream car. I can’t believe the little geek hypnotist got the girl!

Henry points at Trixie’s face. “Cum now!” he bellows.

*********

** _Jackson Starr, WCRP Lead Anchor_ **

Trixie’s mouth opens wide. “Ohhhhhhhhh…!!!” she squeals. Every muscle on the girl goes tense.

God, she’s hot.

*********

** _Stephen, WCRP Makeup Artist_ **

Fuck it. I’ll never get to fool around with Trixie. But I at least want to see her completely naked. That’ll have to be the next best thing. Once I see her completely nude, then I’ll know if I’m gay or bi. Fuck the consequences.

I’m walking right up to the truck.

*********

** _Barry, WCRP Line Producer_ **

You know, Trixie is facing away from me. If I approach her from behind… I’ll see her naked ass. Which is probably the best I can do. Goddamnit.

I’m going for it. I’ll just peak, then sneak away. Trixie will never know I was there.

*********

** _Chuck, WCRP Station Manager_ **

Fuck it all, I want to see my hottest star in the buff. I’m walking up to the truck and looking in. She’ll never be able to see my face in the darkness.

*********

** _Jackson Starr, WCRP Lead Anchor_ **

You know what? I’m gonna go for broke. I’m gonna look in the truck.

Maybe when that hypnotist sees me looking down on him, he’ll realize that **_I’ve_** got **_his_** number. And then I can blackmail him into giving me control over Trixie.

*********

** _Hank, WCRP Cameraman_ **

Maybe I’m hypnotized too, but I find myself walking right up to the truck. Decency be damned, if I’m not getting laid, at least I’m gonna see Trixie Mathers completely naked.

I reach the edge of the truck’s bed, right by the driver’s side, and look down.

There she is, the world’s single most desirable woman, as naked as the day God made her. I can’t see much in the darkness, but I like what I can see. Her smooth, pale skin almost glows in the faint moonlight.

Trixie, now only two feet from me, is still straddling her hypnotist. Henry is naked, lying on an old quilt (I called it!), his scrawny little hands gripping Trixie by the hips. He’s barely holding on.

Trixie’s eyes are closed, and she’s tilted her head back, letting that thick brown hair flutter in the warm breeze. I watch, mesmerized, as her nude breasts rise and fall, rise and fall. She has **_perfect_** nipple placement. But you knew she would.

“Oh… fuck me…” I whisper, despite myself.

And immediately, I know I’ve made a huge mistake.

There’s a soft click, and suddenly Henry is lifting a Zippo lighter, its lone flame casting a faint golden glow in all directions. Both Henry and Trixie are now staring at me.

“The… fuck?” Trixie snarls, shaking her head.

Somehow, I know: she’s completely out of hypnosis!

The girl of my dreams hops off the skinny hypnotist, then lets out of bloodcurdling yelp. There are **_other_** men here! **_Other men standing around the bed of the truck!_** Other men staring at this scene with a mixture of horror and dismay!

“Oh, fuck!” screams Trixie, angrily grabbing at the quilt. She slaps Henry on the naked belly, hard.

“Get me out of here, pervert!” she shouts.

Henry, panic in his eyes, scrambles over the rim of the truck. He rudely shoves me aside. He throws open the truck door, climbs inside. The engine roars to life.

And the last thing I see is Trixie, hunkering down in the truck bed, as it speeds away.

*********

** _Stephen, WCRP Makeup Artist_ **

Well… that went as badly as it could have.

Its official: I’m gay, except for Trixie Mathers. For her, I’ll swing back.

*********

** _Chuck, WCRP Station Manager_ **

Ohhhh fuck. Old Widow Harbors ain’t gonna like hearing about **_this_**.

*********

** _Jackson Starr, WCRP Lead Anchor_ **

Shit! Shit! Shit!

Who are all these other guys???

*********


	6. Epilogue

** _Five Years Later…_ **

** _Chuck, former WCRP Station Manager_ **

I trudge through the front door. Its late, and the house is dark. My wife is out with her girlfriends, I think, which means I’ll need to make a TV dinner. Goddamnit.

Its been four years since WCRP folded. Amazingly, no-one ever heard of what went down in the Spare Lot that night that we hypnotized Trixie Mathers. But Trixie promptly vanished, and we never saw her again.

Which was a big, big problem. Seems that Trixie’s sexy dancing while under hypnosis drove our male viewers wild… and inflamed our female viewers even more. Mothers and wives organized boycotts of our sponsors. Advertisers left us in droves, and that killed our bottom line.

But even worse, our male viewers began watching us avidly for any sign of Trixie. But with Trixie gone, we couldn’t satisfy their demands. Putting other sexy girls on the air did no good. The audience wanted Trixie. Only Trixie. When she never re-appeared, the males accused us of cock-teasing them, and they abandoned the station, too.

Disgusted, Old Widow Harbors sold us off for parts, then had the studio bulldozed.

And me? …sigh… Now I’m the assistant manager of the Route 6 McDonalds’, which is half the salary and none of the fun I used to have. There’s not even one hot broad for me to gaze at there.

I shoulda applied for that job teaching Film Production at Omaha Community College.

*********

I eat my Salisbury steak and then the mashed potatoes, which kinda taste the same. I’m alone, the house is dark, and I’m depressed. Maybe TV will distract me.

I hit the clicker, and there’s the Drake Harrington Show, a talk show out of LA. I like Drake. His monologues are funny, and his sense of humor is like mine. He also has a line of pretty girls who dance after the commercial breaks.

I’ve missed the opening monologue, but Drake is bringing out his first guest. “_Tonight,_” he crows, “_I’m pleased to welcome a talented young actress, who just landed a major role on NBC’s Diamond & Oil. Would you please welcome the beautiful and talented… Trixie Mathers!_”

I drop the clicker, absolutely stunned. Striding out from the wings, with a confident expression on her face, is Trixie. I haven’t seen her since… well, you know. (WCRP never recorded any of our broadcasts, so I couldn’t even view her on tape.) It’s a shock to see that beautiful face again.

Trixie’s wearing blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a beige, long-sleeved button-down blouse. It dawns on me… I’ve never seen her wearing so many clothes. At WCRP, she always wore tiny skirts and low-cut tops. Trixie’s long, brown hair is curly now, and she has it loosely pinned up behind her head.

God… she’s just as alluring and sexy as I remember. More, perhaps. That touch of baby fat is gone from her cheeks, and you can tell that she’s been working out hard with a personal trainer. But her green eyes still sparkle and her smile can slay any heart. They still slay mine.

Trixie waves to the madly-applauding studio audience, then exchanges cheek-kisses with Drake. I feel a pang of jealousy. She sits easily in the guest chair, comfortable in her own skin.

“_How are you, darling?_” Drake asks.

“_I’m quite good, Drake, kudos,_” responds Trixie. Her smile is wider, now.

Drake congratulates her on Diamond & Oil, which is a steamy drama about rich people screwing one another over. Sounds juicy. Trixie is in her element, telling stories with a twinkle in her eye, and actually making both host and audience laugh as she talks.

I study her closely. The Trixie I remember was dumb and naïve. This girl on my TV screen is confident, intelligent, witty, a master at conversation. I recognize her face, body, and voice… but much of her is a complete stranger.

“_Now, let me ask about a rumor I heard about you,_” Drake says, leaning forward. “_I heard that before you started acting… you were a stage hypnotist?_”

“_Oooooo…!_” the audience murmurs.

Trixie blushes a little, but nods. “_Yep,_” she admits. “_I toured as Trixie the Irresistible for a few years. It’s a living._”

“_Wow,_” Drake remarks, genuinely fascinated. “_Is that how you got your start in show biz?_”

Now Trixie laughs. “_No, no, I fell into the hypnotism thing by accident. Right at the very beginning of my career._”

“_Oh,_” Drake smirks, “_this I gotta hear._”

“_Well…_” says Trixie, then blushes again. “_This is truly horrible story, Drake. Do you promise to keep it between just us?_”

“_Absolutely,_” the TV host deadpans.

“_Alright,_” says Trixie, settling in for a long yarn. “_Well, when I was just sixteen, I spent a year or so going to auditions. Auditions for commercials, auditions for plays, auditions for anything._”

“_This was in New York?_” guesses Drake.

The beautiful woman shakes her head. “_Oh, no. This was Omaha, Nebraska. A real nice town. But home to a slimy bunch of producers, believe me. Every time I went to an audition, the producers would invite me back to their room for… you know…_”

The audience groans in disapproval.

“_Yeah,_” Trixie nods. “_So by the time I was eighteen, I was pretty frustrated. I came up with a different scheme. And believe me, Drake, it was evil, just evil._” She blushes again and grins.

The audience ripples with charmed laughter. She’s got them eating out of the palm of her hands.

“_So I go to this local TV station,_” Trixie continues. “_This station that had the _**worst**_ reputation in town for harassing women. If I told you some of the stories that I’d heard…! Anyway. So the day I go to this station, I dress up in the tightest clothes I have, you know? And then, I play the biggest airhead with those people. I talk like this…_”

Trixie sits up, tilting her head to one side. She adopts a flirty expression. “_Pleeeeeease, mister,_” she pouts, “_I just gotta be on TV!_”

The audience guffaws, and Trixie laughs with them.

In my La-Z-Boy, I fume with humiliation. **_That’s_** the Trixie I remember.

“_Okay,_” chuckles Trixie, continuing her story, “_so now these people think I’m this dumb, pretty twit. They put me on the air. They don’t care that I seem to have no talent whatsoever. And they always put me in these tiny tiny tiny little stripper outfits.”_ She shakes her head at the memory.

“_Sounds classy,_” Drake observes.

Trixie gags. “_Yeah, well, they last laugh was on them. Because_ _every time they would put me in one of their shows, I would whatever I could to screw it up._”

“_Deliberately?_” says Drake, fascinated.

“_Oh yeah, absolutely,_” Trixie confirms. “_Remember, I’m playing the dumb girl act with these clowns. Its amazing how far you can embarrass people when you’re the dumb, pretty girl._”

_“But… why sabotage their shows?_”

“_I’m ashamed to admit it now,_” Trixie confesses, “_but at the time, I thought that if I could cause enough disruption, cause just enough chaos on the airwaves, I could really embarrass the station. Show Omaha how sexist and exploitive those creeps were. Then, when I created enough of a bruhaha, I could ride the notoriety all the way to Hollywood. It worked for_ _Evelyn Nesbit, right?_”

“_So, did it work?_” Drake has to know.

Trixie scrunches her lips in a mock expression of regret. “_…almost,_” she fesses.

The audience laughs.

“_The producers pulled one over on me,_” admits Trixie. “_They hired a hypnotist for a TV show and made me be the lovely assistant, and-_“

“_Wait a minute,_” the host interrupts, “_you got hypnotized on local TV?_”

“_I did,_” Trixie admits sheepishly.

Now the audience murmurs excitedly.

“_Holy cow,_” Drake exclaims. “_So… what did they make you do?_”

Trixie adopts a coy expression, before saying demurely, “_Well… let’s just say I _**really**_ embarrassed myself, both on and behind the camera. Not one of my prouder moments._”

The audience quiets down.

“_But then, after that, the stage hypnotist guy offered me a regular gig to pose as his lovely assistant. The pay was good, and he offered to tour me across the US. What eighteen-year-old wouldn’t take that opportunity?_”

“_Whoa, whoa, hold on, hold on…_” Drake says. “_How do you know you weren’t hypnotized into becoming his assistant?_”

“_Oh, the slimeball _**tried**_ to hypnotize me to do it,_” replies the young actress. She adopts a mocking version of Henry’s voice: “_Look into my eyes, Trixie, you are in my power, you will happily work for free, you are my girlfriend, awake now!_” She laughs. “_He got me only that first time. Never again after that._”

Dumbfounded, Drake leans forward. “_So… you pretended…?_”

“_I pretended to be under his spell, at least for the first three months,_” Trixie nods. “_But all the time, I was studying him, learning his craft. When I figure out how hypnotism worked, I struck out on my own, did my own stage hypnosis show, and…_” She shrugs. “_One thing led to another, and suddenly I knew a lot of people in show biz. Getting into acting was easy after that._”

The studio audience claps, impressed.

“_Don’t forget,_” Trixie says, pointing to the camera, “_if you’re a girl in this world and you wanna succeed, there’s gonna be an army of perverts who only want you to be the sexy, brainless bimbo. Don’t let them. But sometimes its not a bad thing to let them underestimate you._”

“_I get it now,_” grins Drake. “_And that’s why you’re the Girl with the Fabulous…_”

“_…Career,_” finishes Trixie.

Now the audience applauds like mad. Trixie smiles back.

Depressed, I snap off the TV.

*********


End file.
